Dragged into Darkness (9 page)

“No.  Drive around for a bit.  You don’t get far in London traffic these days.”

Harker
tore the parking ticket off his windscreen and examined it.  He shook his head.  “Have you seen the price of these things?  I must fund the city of Westminster.”

“That’s why I don’t drive in London.”

Harker
found a gap in the traffic and joined the creeping line of cars going nowhere.

“What can you tell me, Ben?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.  I heard the tape recording from this morning.  We’re not involved in anything to spark your surprise package.  To be honest, I’d have thought you’d know.  It’s got to have something to do with you.”

“If it does, I’ll be buggered if I know.  Twenty-five years in the game, there isn’t anybody I haven’t pissed off.”

Harker
sighed and thought for a minute.  “You still got the foot?”

Mack nodded. 
“In my freezer.”

“Remind me not to come round for ice-cream.” 
Harker
joined the A4.  “I’ll send a courier in the morning to pick it up.  Maybe Path can give us some clues.”

“So, there have been no moves to provoke this action?”

“No.  Have you checked in with your émigré groups and alike?”

“No, not yet.”

“I would if I were you.   See if anyone is missing.  Can I drop you anywhere?”

Maybe
Harker
had a point.  Mack should know why he was being targeted.  And if he didn’t, his old comrades should.  After leaving
Harker
, it was far too late to contact anyone in central Europe.  The following morning, Mack spent hours contacting his defunct agents in Germany and the Czech Republic. 

At least his people, the Headmaster’s pupils, were accessible.  His groups weren’t made up of James Bond types but average Joes, doing average jobs.  They had to be.  Most of the time, they lived their cover as clerks and secretaries in various foreign government departments.  They only turned into agents
when they came across something of value.  But in the last ten years they were, like him, surplus to requirements and essentially lived their normal lives.

The calls were all the same.  His pupils were pleased to hear from the Headmaster and were well and intact.  Whoever owned the foot in his freezer, it wasn’t anyone he knew.  He was amazed how tired he felt after making all those pointless calls.  He put the phone down, drained.  It immediately rang again.

“Hello.”

“Mack.  It’s Jack Davenport.”

Davenport was an old warhorse like him.  Just by his tone, Mack knew it wasn’t a social call.

“Yes, Jack.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“What?”

“You weren’t the only one to receive a package.  So did
I
.”

“What did you receive?”  Mack’s words were slow and deliberate.

“A foot, just like you.”

“Which one?”

“Left.”

“Damn it!”

“What?”

“
So’s
mine.”

“That means we have two guys hobbling.”

A figure loomed at Mack’s front door.  The frosted glass only helped to obscure an already
definitionless
outline. 

“Jack, I’ll call you back.  Someone’s at the door.”  He hung up on Davenport and waited for the doorbell to ring.

When it did, Mack rose, removing his old Beretta from the small of his back.  The gun, like him, had been mothballed.  He had dug it out from its hiding place in the attic the night before and cleaned it.  He trusted that gun.  Eleven men had been deep-sixed with it.  He
snicked
off the safety and wondered if he was going to make it an even dozen.

He hid the automatic behind his back before opening the door.  A leather-clad biker complete with black helmet and visor that shielded his eyes stood on the porch.  The biker didn’t bother him that much, not enough to draw his weapon, but what the biker was holding did.  In his gauntleted hands, the biker held a package, the same size as the one Mack had received the day before.

He had the drop on the biker.  Both his hands were tied up with the package.  There was no chance for him to reach for a weapon. 

Mack snapped his arm out and aimed at the helmet.  He saw his distorted image reflected in the biker’s visor, him small and alien-like and the Beretta, exaggerated, elongated and twice as lethal.

“Jesus!” the helmet mumbled.

“Not Jesus, Terry Mack.  Now, let’s find out who the hell you are.”  He yanked on the biker’s arm, dragging him into the hallway, and kicked the door shut. 
“In the kitchen.
  Go on.”

The biker walked stiff legged.  More muffled words came from under the helmet.

Mack pressed the automatic into the back of the man’s neck.  That shut him up.

In the kitchen, Mack said, “Put the parcel on the table and sit.  Keep your hands on the table at all times.”

The biker did as he was told.

Mack slipped into a chair at the opposite end of the table, always keeping a fixed aim on his target.  “Helmet off.  Let’s see who you are.”

The biker raised his arms carefully and removed his helmet.  A flushed face appeared, distorted by the helmet’s padding.  His hair stood on end.  Mack wasn’t sure if fear or static had caused it.

“Talk,” Mack ordered and the Beretta demanded.

“Ben
Harker
sent me.  I’m here to collect a package.”

“Who am I?”

“You’re the Headmaster.  You’re Terry Mack.”

The biker started to babble.  Mack raised his hand.  He wasn’t anyone
and if this was what passed for an agent these days, God help us.

Mack didn’t drop the pistol.  It would be a good character building exercise for the biker, helping him to work
under pressure.  It might save his life one day.

“Where’d the package come from?”

“It was on the doorstep.”

“Open it.”

“What?”

“Open the parcel.”

“What with?”

“Use your imagination.”

The biker tugged off his gauntlets and ripped at the package with his fingers.

“That could be a parcel bomb,” Mack offered.

The biker froze.  He stared dumbly at Mack

“I doubt it though, but never take anything at face value,” Mack reassured.  “Continue.”

The biker was in disarray.  He didn’t know whether he was on foot or horseback.  He was broken.  He’d do whatever Mack told him to do. 

The biker bent back on the flaps and pulled out a wad of stuffing.  He recoiled, knocking his chair over.  “Jesus!”

Bingo, Mack thought.  He placed the Beretta on the table and pulled the parcel over to him.  He examined the contents.

“It’s a fucking hand,” the biker spat.

“So it is.”  Another anonymous body part sealed in plastic.  Mack didn’t remove the hand.  What was the point?  He could guarantee there was nothing to help him to make any connections.  He slid the package back to the recovering biker and retrieved a roll of tape from a drawer.  “Seal it up.  That goes back with you too.”

***

Mack was dozing on the settee when the phone rang.  By his watch, it was early evening.   He shook off the effects of sleep by answering the phone in the hallway.

“Mack,
it’s
Ben.”  
Harker
sounded anxious.

“Did you like my bonus gift?”

“Loved it.
  I’ve got Jack Davenport’s delivery too.”

“It’s the same foot.”

“I know.  He told me his was a left as well.”

“No, you don’t understand.  Jack’s foot and your foot are identical.  They came from the same person.”

Mack wanted to laugh.  “Are you saying there’s some guy out there with two left feet?”

Harker
exhaled.  “To be exact, I’m saying there’s a guy out there who used to have two left feet.”

“No wonder we’re going round in circles.”

Mack’s comic relief wasn’t appreciated.  

“Christ, Mack.  I don’t know what to tell you.  Yes, it looks like the feet came from the same person.  No, I can’t say I understand it or even want to believe it,”
Harker
finished, exasperated.

“Could we be dealing with twins?”

“No.  The DNA is absolutely identical.  No doubt about it.  We’re dealing with one person.”

“And the hand?”

“A match too.”

Mack scratched behind his left ear, like he always did when he was confused.  He didn’t get it.  And he wasn’t surprised that
Harker
didn’t either.  They dealt with intrigue, espionage—not medical mysteries.  Mack felt as green as his biker—totally out of his depth.

“Mack, meet me.  Let’s see if we can’t make sense of this.”

“Where?”

Mack descended into the depths of Charring Cross Hospital in search of the morgue.  He found
Harker
pacing in the hallways, waiting. 

“Thanks for coming, Mack.”

Harker
led Mack into a dimly lit, chilled room filled with wall freezers, a row of stainless steel examination tables and several inhabited, sheet-covered trolleys.   A pathologist covered an adult male’s remains that he had been examining.

“Dr. Kempton, this is Terry Mack, he’s one of the recipients.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Mack.
  I won’t shake.”  Kempton raised his latex-gloved hands and waggled his fingers.  “Come this way.”

The pathologist opened a freezer locker and slid out the contents.  The body length drawer was under-utilized.  Looking sad, the bagged body parts occupied only a small portion of the drawer.  Mack was reminded of what many mothers told their growing children.  “Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it.”  Staring at the body parts, he didn’t doubt it.  More would come.

“Mr. Mack.”  Kempton picked up the bag with the hand in it.

“Just Mack,” he corrected.

Kempton smiled.  “Mack, you’ve given me one hell of a problem.  The blood work, DNA, all say this is the same person.  Our
problem as you know
, two left feet.”

“So, we know he isn’t a dancer.”

“Quite.”

“So, what else do we know?”

“Two things really.
  Either the victim is a freak of nature or…”